


Desperation

by Captain_Loki



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Injury, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, thank god we're alive fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:43:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Loki/pseuds/Captain_Loki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on prompt "ok but derek and stiles having thank-god-no-one-died sex and derek fucking stiles so hard he makes an embarrassing shrill yelping noise"</p>
<p>that's it. That's the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/gifts).



> prompt was a post made by tumblr user [detectivebuttcop / betp](http://detectivebuttcop.tumblr.com/post/48104919069/ok-but-derek-and-stiles-having)
> 
> cross posted to [tumblr](http://captain-snark.tumblr.com/post/48167298261/detectivebuttcop-ok-but-derek-and-stiles-having)

They’re in Derek’s bathroom and they’re arguing, which isn’t unusual. Derek is shirtless, which is also par for the course. Stiles is trying to tend to a set of scratches at his shoulder with a salve he’d made with Deaton’s help, good for alpha injuries, which is what this is, so Stiles cleans the area and smears it generously before slapping a bandage across it, Derek wincing angrily at him.

“Let me see,” Derek says then, catching Stiles jaw in his hands and trying to inspect the bruises, the scrapes and cuts along his face from flying shrapnel and glass.

“I’m  _fine_ ,” Stiles insists, annoyed. “I’m not the one who went off half-cocked  _again_.”

“I’m the one who can  _heal_ ,” Derek argues. Stiles laughs and gestures wildly towards the bloody towels on the floor and the bandage on his naked chest. “Eventually,” Derek amends.

“I’m not completely useless you know, you don’t have to sacrifice yourself unnecessarily  _every goddamn time_ ,” Stiles snaps.

“Why? You want the honor?” Derek huffs right back.

“I don’t—“ Stiles sighs, shaking his head and throwing up his hands. “God you’re annoying.”

“Takes one to know one,” Derek snaps.

“That doesn’t even make sense,  _dingus_!” Stiles counters shoving him away from him towards the sink so he can wash his hands properly.

“Yeah, cos ‘dingus’ has room to talk,” Derek says waspishly.

“You know what?” Stiles grits, ‘fuck you!”

“Yeah well fuck you right back,” Derek quips, pressing into Stiles face and glaring.

“Just say the word,” Stiles tells him, holds his ground, pushes forward, two can play chicken. Derek looks at him then, gazes back and forth between Stiles’ eyes and then his lip twitches up in a steely sort of smirk and he says, all slow and deliberate, “word.”

 

Stiles’ mouth drops open slightly, and there’s a tense moment before he’s suddenly reaching up to clamp two damp hands to Derek’s jaw as Derek grips at Stiles’ hips dragging him in for a sloppy, desperate sort of kiss.

Derek makes a noise against his mouth, a whining sort of moan he suppresses as he licks Stiles’ mouth open, running his tongue along Stiles’ lip before shoving in roughly, Stiles opening up as they bump at the waist and chest. Then suddenly there are hands tugging at his clothes, scraping over his fly and tearing off his hoodie, catching in the bulk of material.

“Oh my  _God_ ,” Stiles shouts, “just get it  _off_!” Derek makes an angry noise in the back of his throat and  tugs at the sleeve of Stiles’ plaid over shirt.

“We wouldn’t be having this issue if you weren’t wearing twelve  _fucking_  layers,” he grits out, stitching somewhere making an angry tearing noise as Stiles manages to get his elbow out of a sleeve.

“It’s practical,” Stiles argues, scrabbling over Derek’s hands as they both try to rid him of his clothes.

“It’s a fucking pain in the ass.” Stiles opens his mouth to retort when Derek lets out a frustrated huff, bats Stiles’ hands away forcefully and uses the edge of a claw to rip Stiles t-shirt down the middle, it falls away from his chest and Stiles stares at him with shock and indignation.

“I  _liked_ that shirt!”

“It had blood on it,” Derek argues, and he grasps Stiles by the hips and turns him around, presses him up against the double vanity.

“I have a washing machine,” Stiles says, he means for it to be defiant but Derek’s hips are rolling, hard line of his dick pressed tight against his ass.

“I’ll buy you another one,” Derek offers, barely listening. His hands have found the button on Stiles’ jeans and he tugs it open, yanks the zip down hard and starts pushing Stiles’ jeans and boxers down without preamble, over the curve of his ass.

“Fuck,” Stiles manages as his cock springs free, hard and standing at attention as Derek presses a broad hand against his abdomen, pinning him, before wrapping a tight hand around his cock and jerking him in slow, hard strokes. “Oh, fuck,” Stiles is nodding at nothing, a vague gesture to indicate his extreme approval. Derek’s other hand moves to his chest, rubbing over the hardening nub of one of Stiles’ nipples. He lets Stiles dick fall away from his hand too soon, pulls Stiles’ jeans off all the way in one smooth, graceful move and Stiles stares at him in open fascination in the large mirror over the sink.

“Get your pants off,” he tells Derek, who, for once, obliges without argument, shoving his own jeans down over the sharp jut of his hip bones, halfway down strong thighs. Stiles watches in the mirror the flex of his muscles as he moves, before Derek is pushing at his legs and Stiles takes the initiative, raises one up to brace against the vanity, marble cold beneath his thigh. He leans forward slightly and juts his hips, presents himself for Derek.

Stiles watches Derek in the mirror, as he presses himself forward, cock in hand, rubbing himself along the crack of Stiles’ ass, teasing, before he spreads Stiles open, groping at his ass. “Ah, ow,” Stiles hisses, turns his head towards Derek and the hand he has pressing fingertips into the fresh, slowly forming bruise coloring his left side, from where he was launched into a steel pole only a few hours earlier.

“It’ll heal, c’mon,” Stiles says, voice low, “give me something else to feel,” and he wags his hips in Derek’s direction, drawing his attention back to the pressing issues hanging heavy between his legs and leaking steadily against the countertop.  

“C’mon, fuck me,” he commands.

“Fuck,” Derek hisses, when Stiles impatiently thrusts back against him, cock catching against his rim and sliding up the crack of his ass, spread open and waiting. Derek doesn’t spend more time than is strictly necessary prepping him, coats his fingers in lube he scrabbles for in a draw beside Stiles’ hip and presses in, insistent, watching Stiles slowly unravel beneath him.

“How do you want it?” Derek asks, and Stiles huffs a little laugh, because it should sound corny, lines from bad porno but he sounds…earnest and eager, impatient and a little annoyed as he grips at the swell of Stiles ass and digs his claws in just sharp enough to make a point. Stiles whimpers beneath him and smiles at him, head ducked, forehead falling towards the mirror as he grips at the edges of the sink.

“Almost died, Derek,” Stiles says, and that’s all he says by way of an answer, but he thinks Derek gets it anyway because a moment later he’s pushing in. He moves slow but Stiles can feel the slight resistance, relaxes as much as this position affords and lets Derek’s hands on his hips hold him steady.

Stiles makes soft, involuntary whimpers of pain and pleasure at the feel of the sharp burn of it. When Derek starts to pull out it pinches, and he smacks at Stiles’ ass who lets out a groaning yelp fading into a pleased breathy sort of laughter as Derek starts to fuck him. True to unspoken word, Derek fucks him hard, hands leaving bruises on his hips to match those blossoming in more unfavorable ways across his side and chest.

Stiles has never been adept at faking enthusiasm, sometimes he’ll ham it up if he’s feeling particularly generous and the lay is worth another go around. But he’s not loud, not one for drawn out moans worthy of grainy pornos shot in seedy studios with piss poor attempts at actual plot lines. But the first real sharp thrust of Derek’s hips, piston hard, feeling like it was aimed with actual algorithmic accuracy. Stiles lets out a sound like a choked off moan, a high yelping mewl as he’s forced into the vanity, hands coming up to grip at the wall, palming at the mirror in front of him in an attempt to steady himself as Derek fucks him with relentless abandon.

Eventually, Derek pushes at his jeans, gets one leg free so he can raise it up towards Stiles’, pushing him further forward, Derek’s knee settled in the crook of Stiles’ as he fucks him, his pace quickening now he has better access, Stiles’ back arching beneath him, his skin flushed and red, sweat slicked beneath the hand Derek has on his hip, the other wrapped around his chest.

Stiles makes a valiant effort to prevent the litany of half formed curses and sobbing guttural moans, bites at the inside of his cheek until he can taste copper on his tongue. It does little to stem the flow, Derek fucking him so hard and so ruthlessly that Stiles is unable to pull in enough air to finish one mewling whimpering moan before the next is rent from his slack and open mouth.

“fuck, right there,” he manages, as Derek shifts angles, and Stiles yelps again, twitches in Derek’s grip, breath fogging up the mirror in front of him and sweaty palm sliding down it, losing traction. Derek catches Stiles’ gaze in the mirror, Stiles tries to ignore how desperate he looks himself, the flush of his cheeks and the cuts standing stark against his pale skin. He watches Derek, the look on his face sober, the way he looks when he’s training, when he’s putting all of his careful, concerned focus into it. It clenches somewhere in Stiles’ chest being the sole focus of that kind of attention, makes him flush even harder than the thought of his thick cock ramming with bruising force into his ass, the way he spread himself without argument for Derek. Derek’s head drops and he bites at Stiles’ neck like he knows what he’s thinking and whispers, “fuck, you feel so good,” and gives one last, slow, grinding  _thrust_ and Stiles is coming with a shout, cock twitching hard, spurting against the mirror, the faucet, the sink and then he’s laughing, making a snuffling choked noise of embarrassment at it. But Derek just smiles at him, stilling.

“Can I come on you?” He asks, voice breathy, eyes a little wild as he turns Stiles face towards him. Stiles nods, “yeah, yes whatever you want, fuck,” and allows himself to be manhandled. Derek pulls out slowly and turns him, presses a palm over his spent cock, and the come thick on Stiles’ stomach. He jerks himself twice before he comes with a curse and Stiles’ name on his lips, shooting hot against Stiles stomach and chest.

He rubs a hand through the mess as Stiles leans back against the vanity on legs that wobble dangerously, watches in fascination as Derek presses forward, until their stomachs and chests are grazing, come smearing across both of them, Derek sniffling at the crook of Stiles’ neck.

“Stop getting hurt,” Derek tells him then, earnestly. Stiles huffs a sardonic laugh and reaches a hand up to thread through Derek’s sweaty hair, kisses his temple, “right back at you, big guy.” 


End file.
